Cutting
by Immi
Summary: Companion piece to 'Scars' and 'Destruction', Sara's POV. CathSara, antiGSR. Very angsty.


Disclaimer: I really don't own any of this. Yeah. I'm sad too.

AN: Oh screw it. Maybe I should just add my fics into my NaNoWriMo work.

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"I won't wait up."

I shake my head as I think of my parting remark to Grissom.

Of course I won't wait up. I never do. I usually leave before him these days. Usually I'm asleep by the time he clocks out. Or I pretend to sleep.

I've been pretending a lot lately. I pretend to love Grissom. I pretend I don't love Catherine. I pretend that I don't want to go out for drinks with Greg. I pretend that I'm not having constant nightmares. I pretend that Grissom's version of the Look doesn't make me want to cry or kill him.

In short, I pretend that I'm fine. What a joke that is. I'm not fine.

Hell, I've never been fine. But right now, I'm even more fucked up than usual.

How the hell did that happen?

Oh. Right. Grissom.

I thought if I latched on to him, I'd be safe. I thought if I had a constant in my life- no matter what my feelings were towards him- I'd be safe.

Wrong. Damn it, supposedly I'm intelligent. You wouldn't know that if you looked at my recent decisions.

Right now, I'm not standing in Grissom's apartment. No way. I never do this in his apartment. It makes me feel like I'm being watched. Like there's someone behind me shaking their head in disgust.

I'm standing in front of my bathroom mirror, staring at myself. I almost want to laugh at the pitiful picture I make up. There are dark circles under my bloodshot eyes, I've obviously lost weight, and there are so many scars decorating my arms I'm surprised Grissom hasn't asked about them.

Isn't it his job to be observant? Maybe he just doesn't care. Or, most likely, he doesn't want to know. He tends to avoid discussing anything about my past. He probably thinks that the scars have always been there.

I can't believe I ever thought 'dating' him would be a good idea. Even if I'm only with him to have some sort of anchor, I still could have made about a billion better choices. I could have decided to be with someone who loved all of me, and didn't want me to cover up my scars with makeup when we're going to bed.

He's never actually said that. But it's obvious that he's thinking it. I can't blame him.

When I pretend to sleep, I usually think about Catherine. We're friends now. Well, sort of. We don't fight anymore. It's weird. That was our working dynamic for so long, and now it's just not there.

It's sort of depressing. Seeing her angry was one of the images that haunted my dreams so often. That image of her was always a good incentive to get up and go to work.

Now… now I almost wish I didn't have to go to work. Grissom's there, Greg's looking at me with those sad eyes, Sofia's frowning at me whenever I wear a long-sleeved shirt, Jim asks me out to breakfast after work more often than he used to, Nick and Warrick all but ignore me, and Catherine…

Catherine isn't the same. She's still the woman I love, but she seems more… muted, than usual. I never thought I'd actually miss us ripping each other's heads off. But I really do.

My hand's shaking as I pick up the knife. That's odd. It's never shook before. Maybe my body's just starting to get how depressed I am. Maybe it realizes that this time, I might not wrap the injuries up as quickly.

The first time I cut myself was just after Jim got shot. The man is the closest thing I've ever had to a father figure, and I wasn't sure what I would do with myself if he died.

Then Grissom asked me out. It became a bit more than a date. That's the first time I actually came close to stabbing myself instead of just making light, superficial cuts. But I didn't. Back then, I still thought things would work out.

Yeah. See? Looking at my recent decisions, it's hard to see an intelligent person.

I try to close my eyes every time I do this. But I can't. Some morbid fascination always rises up, and I always make myself look.

This time is no different. The second the blade cuts into my wrist, my eyes fly open and stare as blood starts to leak out from my veins.

In the back of my mind, I hear my door being opened. That same part of my head figures that it's probably Grissom. I cut deeper. I just want out of all of this. It's too much for me to handle.

"Sara?"

... Wait a minute.

Catherine?

I look down at my wrists and drop the knife. My eyes start to burn.

When I look up again, Catherine's sitting next to me, wrapping up my cuts. Tears are falling down from her gorgeous blue eyes.

Dear God, what have I done?


End file.
